


beast or dragons

by orphan_account



Series: The Censorship of Skin [3]
Category: Criminal Minds
Genre: Gen, Trans Character, ftm!Reid
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-03
Updated: 2011-11-03
Packaged: 2017-10-25 16:05:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,148
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/272164
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set during 2x15, Revelations, when Reid first encounters Tobias Hankel's father.</p>
            </blockquote>





	beast or dragons

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Damien](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Damien).



> Title from Beth Hart's "Skin"; series title from "Born A Girl", Manic Street Preachers.
> 
> Warnings: violence (canon torture), Bible verses, religious hatred, anti-trans* sentiment.

No one has ever mentioned how boring it is to be a captive, between the moments of heart-stopping terror.

No one has ever mentioned the desperation with which his mind is clinging to every tenable distraction, either. Because he’s just sitting there, just waiting...but there are only so many ways to escape from any given room, especially when you’re tied to a chair. When you’re terrified, when you’re not as strong as the man who’s going to walk back through the door any minute, when you have an eidetic memory and a long list of escape methods that have worked for other people but none that are feasible here and now, for you....

It doesn’t take long before he’s...no, he hasn’t  given up , he’s waiting. Waiting for a way to gain the upper hand, waiting for something about the situation to change. He knows what to do, even if he’s not sure how, just yet.   
The deadliest weapon we have is a thorough and accurate profile. 

At least this time he’s not barricaded in a hospital emergency room, surrounded by civilians.

He goes over and over possible escape plans until he works himself into a panic, and then spends a good deal of time examining the rusted ironing board in front of him. There’s floral fabric under the grime, and it strikes him as being very out of place. He's been kidnapped by a man who presses his shirts, evidently often enough that his secret lair requires a floral-print ironing board.

Spencer resolutely re-focuses on the floorboards. It wouldn’t be a good idea to be laughing when his captor came back, it really wouldn’t.

Footsteps sound outside. He startles and turns toward the door, heart thrumming rapidly as they draw closer. The door flies open, hits the wall, rebounds. Tobias Hankel strides in, arms laden with firewood. Spencer shrinks back instinctively; something is different, something dangerous.

“What are you staring at, boy?”

The eyes he meets are angry, and his reflexes scream at him. There’s nothing gentle or sympathetic in this man’s movements, no hint at anything aside from dominance and restrained fury. Spencer draws in his shoulders, flattens himself against the back of the chair. The slatted back digs into his ribs, a momentary focus.

“You’re not Raphael.” 

“Do I  look  like Raphael?” 

Yes , he thinks, sarcastic with a wild sense of desperation. But he’s already made a decision, cast himself into the role that will hopefully save his life.

Not-Raphael turns toward the stove. Spencer shakes his head to clear it, ignoring the throbbing headache and the blood trickling down his face, and uses what he’s learned. “Thank you for burning those.” He takes a nervous breath and integrates himself into the world of...whoever this is. “Keeping us safe.”

“Don't try to trick me,” Not-Raphael scoffs, but his voice isn’t as harsh as it could be.

“I would never try to trick you.” Spencer’s words catch on the fear in his throat; he’s playing a role, but the terror is real enough. Nothing quite like method acting.

“You're a liar.” 

At those words, his fear fades into the background - he knows this dialogue cold. The words come automatically, something solid, something known. He’s faced too many accusations since his mother’s agreement to enroll him in high school as Spencer Reid, 11-9-81, male; this is one he knows the answer to. “I'm not a liar.” 

“Lying's a sin.” 

“I'm not a liar.” His voice comes out calmer, stronger than he intends, a relic of years spent repeating those words. He curses internally, tries to bring back the harmless-helpless-sidekick facade.

Not-Raphael doesn’t buy it. The anger in his eyes flares, controlled rage in his every movement as stalks across the room, perches on the cot, and takes Spencer’s foot in his hands. “This will be over quickly if you just confess your sins.”

Spencer knows the answer to that one, too, whether not-Raphael is holding his foot or not, whatever the man has planned for him. He shakes his head. “I'm not a sinner.”

Not-Raphael yanks his shoe off and throws it to the ground. Wrong answer. “We're all sinners.” He reaches for Spencer's other leg, pulls off the other shoe. The fear blooms again as Spencer feels the warmth and pressure of not-Raphael’s hands bleed through his mismatched socks.

“And the LORD spake unto Moses, saying: speak unto all the c-c-congregation of the children of Israel, a-and say unto them, ye shall be holy: for I, the LORD your God, am holy.”

“You know Leviticus.” There’s a momentary softening of not-Raphael’s eyes, and Spencer’s heart jumps in his chest.

“I know every word of the Bible! I can recite it for you.”

Every word. Most of them he had learned from an old, leather-bound copy of the KJV his mother had shown him one day, insisting it was a vital part of western literature. A few of them, particularly some of the verses in Leviticus, Deuteronomy, the Pauline epistles, he had learned before that day.    
The woman shall not wear that which pertaineth unto a man, neither shall a man put on a woman's garment: for all that do so are abomination unto the LORD thy God.    
He could argue scripture and theology better than most adherents of the Christian faith. Necessity, after all, is the best teacher.

Not-Raphael’s eyes narrow. “The devil knows how to read, too.” 

Matthew 4, Spencer thinks. Right before Matthew 5, containing the section commonly called the beatitudes.    
Blessed are they which are persecuted for righteousness' sake: for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.    
But Spencer is neither righteous nor ready to die. 

“I'm not a devil!” Not-Raphael peels off one of Spencer’s socks, and Spencer wonders fleetlingly, hysterically, what he thinks of his mismatched socks. “I'm not a devil, I'm a   
man ! My name is Spencer Reid, and I have a mother, and I have a father just like you, and they taught me the Bible.” Not-Raphael picks up the short branch he brought over from the firewood pile. “Let me just recite - let me recite the Bible.”

Not-Raphael’s fingers close around the branch as he shakes his head. “It’s time to confess, Spencer Reid.” 

There are clusters of nerve endings in the feet, numerous small bones and delicate tendons. When not-Raphael swings the branch down to meet his foot, Spencer feels every one of them - not momentarily, but in an agonizing burn that lingers as not-Raphael readies the branch for another strike.

“Confess!” 

Spencer, still breathless, grits his teeth. This isn’t about playing a role any more; it’s about every person that’s called him a liar, every person who’s condemned him as a sinner, it’s about his core truths. Spencer squeezes his eyes shut for a moment, and then he looks not-Raphael in the eyes. 

“I don't have anything to confess.”

The world explodes into blinding pain.  



End file.
